


The Final Agent

by Corrie71



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-16 20:12:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corrie71/pseuds/Corrie71
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My take on a reunion fic. Written last fall before any setlock spoilers came out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

On the day in early March that John purchased an engagement ring for Mary, Mycroft's car showed up for him. And John, God help him, got in. Not because of any loyalty to Mycroft. His rage towards Mycroft burned as molten as ever. But, Mycroft, Lestrade, and John were the Three Musketeers now. United together to redeem Sherlock's name. As such, as an ally, John could not ignore a summons from him. To his surprise, when he got in the car, Mycroft sat there, urbane as ever. 

"Quite right to go with the sapphire rather than the ruby, John. The blue will remind Mary of your eyes." Mycroft murmured coolly. John shook his head.

"Yes, well, if you know about the ring, you must know that I have dinner reservations in less than an hour so if we could get past the chit-chat..." 

“You will reschedule." Mycroft purred. "I've moved your reservation to tomorrow and Mary should be receiving a text from your phone at any moment, explaining that you’ve been called away." 

John gaped like a fish and then just shook his head. He would never get used to the heavy-handed Holmes brothers. Brother, he corrected himself. Just one now to plague his life. 

"What do you want, Mycroft?" 

"There is someone that I'd like you to...see." Mycroft said and turned to look out the window at the London scenery flashing past. “I believe it might snow. In March. What are things coming to?” 

“Even you can’t control the weather, Mycroft.” 

“Quite right.” Mycroft answered and pulled out his latest iDevice to begin working. John knew from experience that he'd get no more. He was mildly surprised that they were heading southeast--must be going to the Surrey mansion. The drive took just over an hour from the heart of the city. As they drove down the tree lined drive, Mycroft turned to him.

"I know you hate me. Trust that your anger is no more than I've felt towards myself these last three years. But, know this, Dr. Watson. I didn't know. I swear it."

"A man as clever as you, not seeing through Moriarty..." John flared up, instantly warming to the old argument.

"Not Moriarty." Mycroft's voice cut across John's temper like a lash. 

"Then what?" John asked, befuddled, as the car coasted to a stop in front of the old stone steps.

"The truth. May it set you free" With this cryptic pronouncement, Mycroft climbed from the car and climbed the stairs. John followed, as seemed to be his lot in life when it came to Holmes men. Twilight deepened to gloaming as they walked in and John glanced up at the stars winking on above, remote and cold as the man in front of him. They walked into the sitting room, Mycroft calling for tea. After they were settled with their cups, Mycroft leaned back, tapping his fingers absently on the chair. 

"Much as I enjoy having a lovely cuppa with you, Mycroft, what's this about?" John asked as the door opened again. He glanced up and his teacup slid right out of the saucer to bounce along the plush carpet.

"Hello, John." Sherlock said.


	2. Chapter 2

All his lovely curls were gone, replaced by a buzz cut that would not have looked out of place on John when he was in Afghanistan. Sherlock was thinner, nearly gaunt, the hollows in his cheeks standing out starkly in his pale face. Dressed far more casually than John had ever seen him in jeans, a charcoal pullover sweater and a bomber jacket. The clothes were loose, as though he’d lost weight recently. 

Still, he looked pretty good for a corpse. 

For long moments, John just stared. Dimly, he heard Mycroft rise and leave the room, saying something like “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Say something, John.” Sherlock said, with that half-grin that John loved so much, as he sat in the armchair Mycroft vacated. 

John stood, grabbed his coat off the sofa behind him, picked up his cane, and began walking. 

“John?” Behind him, he could hear Sherlock trailing him out of the library and into the hall. 

John flung open the front door and clattered down the steps, faster than his stiff leg would really allow. He crunched along the drive, in the awkward, stiff, half run that was all he could manage with the cane. Night had fallen fully now but the moon wasn’t up. Shadows lurked on either side of the doors, hidden in the rustling, spring bare trees. Pale starlight washed the gravel drive to silver and John crunched on, his mind a comfortably buzzing blank. He knew from experience that his mobile phone wouldn’t work until he reached the end of the drive, past the stone lions crouched at the entrance. Though it would be agony for his leg, he would walk to the nearest town and phone Mary to get him. 

He heard one of the Holmes brothers shouting his name behind him but he pressed on, trying to outrace the emotional agony that he knew lay on the other side of his current numbness. There must be some trick, that was all. Some cruel trick of Mycroft’s. Sherlock could not be alive. Thinking that way lay madness…

Except he’d come to know Mycroft fairly well over these last three painful years and John was fairly certain he’d never do something this cruel and bizarre. At least for no purpose. John was under no illusions of Mycroft’s cruelty should it be required. Sherlock, on the other hand…

“John!” Sherlock caught up to him and swung him around to face him. His warm hand on John’s upper arm pierced the comforting cocoon of shock and something inside John shattered. Without conscious forethought, John swung his cane and thwacked Sherlock across the shoulders. The need to maintain his precarious balance was all that kept John from punching him.

“Get away from me.” John said, without heat. Just calm, deadly, focused. He felt as he had in Afghanistan when staring down the sight of his gun, preparing to shoot. 

“You’re angry with me.” Sherlock said, wonder in his voice. “Why?”

“You jumped off a building in front of me. You were…are…dead. We buried you, Sherlock. All I had left of you was that awful, blank, black tombstone.” On the last, John’s voice cracked and the cauldron of emotions inside him boiled over. He let out a unearthly wail and dropped to his knees, racked with dry sobs. Sherlock dropped to his knees beside him and reached for John’s shoulder. John shoved him away and covered his face with his hands as the tears began to course down his cheeks and drop to the gravel path below. They stayed as they were until John’s sob subsided. He swiped at his face with the back of his hands and tried to stem his runny nose. Sherlock stayed silent, understanding enough not to intervene with his friend’s grief, but not really comprehending it.

“John. I owe you a thousand apologies…” He began tentatively, when John struggled with his cane to stand again.

“Don’t bother, Sherlock. I’ll get myself to the nearest town and…”

“I need you, John. For a case.” John could hear the excitement of the chase thrumming through his former friend’s voice and he huffed out a laugh. Being dead hadn’t changed Sherlock all that much. 

“Forget it, Sherlock.” John began limping toward the town. Full dark had fallen now and the woods lining the drive rustled and creaked with wildlife. The bugs hummed in a near deafening roar. It never failed to amaze John that the countryside was louder than London, in its own way. 

Sherlock fell into step beside him. “I’ve been hunting down Moriarty’s network…”

“Of course you have.” John said bitterly and then kept walking, vowing not to speak to Sherlock again.

“Anyway, I’ve hit a dead end and that’s where you come in. I need you to help me flush the final agent out.” Sherlock darted in front of John and John merely walked around him without looking up. “It’ll be dangerous.”

“Who cares?”

“Now, I know my John better than that.” Sherlock said, as though he were just trying to jolly John out of one of his moods.

“I’m not your John.” John ground out and kept walking.

“John, please. I really need an assistant.” 

“Is that what I am to you? More fool me. See, I thought I was your friend, your best mate. So much so, I’ve spent the better part of three years trying to clear your name. Because I thought it was what you’d do for me, if the situation were reversed. But, instead, I come to find out that flinging yourself off the nearest building was just your way of going on holiday for THREE BLOODY YEARS!!” John’s shout started a white tailed deer from the underbrush. She darted across the road in front of them startling John. He had to grab onto Sherlock’s arm for balance. As soon as he righted himself, John shoved him away again.

“Not holiday, John. Far from it.” Sherlock said quietly. 

“I don’t care.” John walked on, Sherlock falling into step beside him. Just then, fluffy flakes of snow began to drift toward the ground. Sherlock held out his palm to let one float into it, as though he hadn’t seen much snow recently, where ever he’d been. John shook his head and just kept walking. 

“It’s three miles to Mereton. With that limp, you’ll never make it before the snow gets bad. Come back to the house.” Sherlock said, stating hard facts in that cool, clear way of his, with little regard for the impact to the listener.

“No.” John limped on, even though he knew Sherlock was right. He’d heard earlier that they were about to receive a rare March snowstorm. He’d even thought it would add a touch of romance to his proposal and that Mary might like to ride the London eye in it. Still, it would take him at least an hour, maybe an hour and a half to reach Mereton and his leg already ached like hell. 

“Come back to the house. We can talk about the case. If you still don’t want to help, I’ll drive you home to London tomorrow morning.” Sherlock said from behind him. John stopped, sighed, and hung his head.

“Drive me home now.”

“In this weather? That would be reckless, even for us.” Sherlock said, warmth and laughter in his tone. “Have dinner with me, John.”

Without a word, John turned and marched back up the drive. He ignored the quick smile this provoked from his former friend.


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft did not join them for dinner. Instead, they ate on trays in front of the fire. Opposite him, Sherlock wolfed down his food. Some things had changed then. Despite not wanting to care, John assessed his friend, telling himself it was just his damnable doctor side coming out. Sherlock was thinner. The lack of unruly curls made his face look even more angular, weirdly alien. Suntan replaced his former Edwardian pallor and John noticed a sprinkle of freckles across his nose. Somehow, for all that, his verdigris eyes remained as startlingly beautiful as ever. 

“You’re staring, Doctor Watson.” Sherlock said, in that damn baritone rumble that haunted John’s dreams. 

“Where have you been?” John asked, before he could stop himself. 

“Everywhere and nowhere.”

“I see. Lucky me. I get to dine with an enigma.” 

Sherlock chuckled, a raspy, disused sound, like he hadn’t had much to laugh over recently. Well, that made two of them, John supposed. 

“I’ve been chasing Moriarty’s operatives. I’ve been all over the world, at different times.”

“And it never occurred to you to drop me a line, send a postcard, text, phone call, try skywriting, just to maybe let me know you weren’t actually dead? You know, so I could stop with the grieving and all.” John snarked.

“But the grieving was necessary. I needed you to believe I was dead. To convince everyone else.” 

“I see.” John stared into the firelight. “You know, after all our time together, I don’t know why I never grew accustomed to being used.”

“You performed a necessary function.” Sherlock said, coolly.

“You’re a right prick, you know that?”

Sherlock smiled, cruelty edging the sides of his mouth. “I believe you even called me a machine once upon a time.”

“Yes, and now I don’t have to feel guilty for it.”

“Guilt is a wasted emotion.” Sherlock said.

“A true Holmesian sentiment.” John shook his head. “So, tell me this then. Why now? Why are you back?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself, John. You know I hate that.” Sherlock picked up his wineglass and took a quick swallow. John fought the urge to throw his wine in Sherlock’s face. “I need you to help me flush out the final agent.”

“No.”

“Come now, John. Don’t be tiresome. You love helping me.”

“I did love it, yeah. Back when I thought we were partners and friends.”

“Are we no longer friends, John?” Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “I still consider you a friend.”

John simply gaped at Sherlock. “Friends don’t pretend they are dead. Friends do not leave their best mate behind without a word to gallivant off. You are not a friend. You’re no one’s friend.”

“I assure you that I am yours.”

John threw his silverware down with a clatter. “I’m going to bed. I want to be back in London by morning.”

“John. Stay, please. We have much to discuss.”

John stopped struggling out of his chair to glance at him. “I have nothing left to discuss with you.”

“The case, John! You’re in danger.” Sherlock said and John shrugged. “Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson too.”

At that, John stopped and sank back into the chair. Was it possible Sherlock didn’t know? Had Mycroft not told him? John licked his lips, trying to think of the words. 

“Sherlock, listen…” He began.

“John, I have much to tell you and not much time.” John held up his hand and Sherlock paused. “What?”

“Mrs. Hudson’s dead, Sherlock.” Sherlock paled under his tan and shifted back in his chair. “It was her heart, last winter. I’m sorry. I thought Mycroft would have mentioned.”

“Oh, I see.” Sherlock stared into the fire for a few seconds. “Well, then, that’s one less person to worry about.”

John would have reprimanded him for his tone and timing but he’d seen the look of true grief that had flickered through Sherlock’s eyes. He paused a moment, trying to think of words to comfort Sherlock, the impulse rising even through the hurt that Sherlock inflicted on him. 

“And Lestrade?” Sherlock said, after a moment, clearing his throat.

“Lestrade is well, as far as I know. Mycroft sees him more often than I do.” John said. “He got busted down in rank for a while but I think he’s a DI again. He’s been working with us to clear your name.”

“Though I never valued my good name as you did, I do thank you for your efforts.” Sherlock inclined his head. John shrugged. “I once compared Moriarty to a spider in a web. I have chased his men throughout the world, trying to untangle that web. And I believe I’ve found them all, save one. That’s what I need you to help me find.”

“Okay, Sherlock, let’s just say that I believe you—and God help me, I do believe you. How can I help you find this last person?”

“By acting as bait.”


	4. Chapter 4

John, despite his residual anger and frequent protestations, loved helping Sherlock. He thought that the next few weeks must be what having an affair is like. He managed to pull days at the clinic, spend time with Mary—even get engaged—and then spend his nights with Sherlock. He didn’t tell Mary where he was. He fibbed and said he was working extra hours at the clinic to buy them a really spectacular honeymoon. John wasn’t sure why he didn’t tell Mary the truth other than that the truth was so inexplicable as to sound like a lie.  
Sherlock’s plan seemed to consist of living back in Baker Street—which both he and John had to sneak into via back alleyways—and interacting with his homeless network. He gave random homeless people so much blunt that John even wondered if he was using again, but he never witnessed a homeless bloke giving Sherlock anything other than information so he stopped worrying on that score.  
Occasionally, it would occur to John that he’d just fallen back in with Sherlock’s schemes without so much as a ripple in the carefully reconstructed life he’d managed to build for himself these past three years. And, if he were in a particularly honest mood, he would admit that he enjoyed—relished even—the chase and the thrill of working again with Sherlock. It certainly beat runny noses, ear infections, and flu jabs at the clinic.  
One Monday night in late April, Lestrade came by to update them on his own research into this mysterious final associate of Moriarty. Sherlock referred to him as Moran. Lestrade had brought take away with him and they tucked into fragrant curry and naan together.  
“What I’m telling you, Sherlock, is that no DI in the Yard has ever heard of any operative named Moran in the city.”  
“There must be something, some lead!”  
“London is low on the criminal masterminds these days.”  
“Perhaps if you’d get of bed with my brother more often you’d have something of more interest to report.”  
“Hang on. What? You and Mycroft?” John sputtered. “How long has that been going on?”  
“About four years now, I’d guess. It started right before I came up to Dartmoor for that case with the dog. We’re talking about a commitment ceremony.”  
“You’re taking the piss! You and Mycroft?” John giggled and stopped abruptly at the look on Lestrade’s face. John could not imagine a stranger couple, unless it was him and Sherlock.  
But, he had Mary.  
Nevermind, he must have had more of the Indian beer than he’d thought.  
“Yes. And I have it on good authority that you recently bought a lovely sapphire solitaire, Doctor Watson.” Lestrade said.  
“For what?” Sherlock asked, turning his head slowly toward John.  
“For whom is the proper question, Sherlock.” Lestrade answered.  
“For whom?” Sherlock parroted, staring at John. John ducked his head. Somehow, he hadn’t managed to really tell Sherlock about Mary.  
“Her name is Mary. We met at the clinic.”  
“Why would you purchase a solitaire for her?” Sherlock said.  
“For an engagement ring, you clot.” Lestrade shook his head, mystified as always by what Sherlock didn’t know. “When are you going to ask her, John?” Lestrade asked. “I can give you a few pointers.”  
“Already did, mate. But cheers.” John toasted Lestrade with his beer bottle.  
“Congratulations then.” Lestrade laughed. “I’m off then. Mycroft will be waiting.’  
“Ugh! Spare me.” Sherlock moaned, his hands steepled under his chin, staring at the vividly patterned wallpaper and the happy face he’d painted and then shot into it. Lestrade left and John tidied up, figuring Sherlock was just furnishing another room in his mind palace.  
“I’m off then.” John patted his jacket pocket for his keys.  
“You didn’t mention you’d become engaged.” Sherlock said the word in the same tone and inflection as someone would say diseased.  
“Oh, well, you know. Never came up.” John shrugged.  
“You’re still angry at me.” Sherlock said. “Even after this month of working together, even though we’re still working on cases all over the city, you’re angry with me.”  
“Sherlock, you leapt to your death in front of me and then let me believe you were dead for years. What did you think? You’d swoop back into town, don your great coat, and we’d just go back as you were. It doesn’t work that way.”  
“No, no, of course not. Silly of me.” Sherlock whispered. John let himself out, wondering why he felt so guilty and furtive, like he was cheating on Sherlock by creeping home to Mary in the dead of the night.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock didn’t call on John for several weeks after their Indian feast. John had thought he was done with missing Sherlock, that three years would have been enough time to inoculate him against missing the mad consulting detective. Instead, the ache worsened daily until he started eyeing random homeless people wondering if they could get in touch with Sherlock for him. Mary accused him of being snappish and accused him of getting cold feet. So, when, on a rainy Thursday in June, Sherlock finally appeared at the clinic disguised as an airline captain, John felt such a rush of relief to find Sherlock as his next patient that he smiled broadly at him. 

“Need your flu jab, Captain?” John smiled at his newest patient and sat down in the rolling doctor’s chair. He rolled over to Sherlock and took his wrist to take his pulse. Sherlock looked down at him, torment in his amazing turquoise eyes. 

“What’s wrong, Sherlock? Are you hurt?” John whispered, still holding his wrist, concern flooding him. He scanned Sherlock quickly but could see no obvious sign of injury. 

“I owe you a thousand apologies. I know that. I am not good with emotional things, with sentiment." Sherlock said low, his eyes never leaving John’s face.

“I know.” John said, at a loss for words. Could Sherlock actually be displaying remorse?

"Did it ever once occur to you that I did this for you? To protect you?” John tossed Sherlock’s arm away and rolled back, crossing his arms over his chest.

“More lies.” John rubbed his forehead and sucked in a deep breath. “Okay then, explain to me how you taking a swan dive off a building is FOR ME, Sherlock." John tried to keep his voice down, not wishing to alert his co-workers, even as he felt his familiar rage bubble up inside him. 

"Moriarty had guns on all of you. He killed himself. He told me he would have killed Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and you. The only way to prevent it was my own death.” John’s jaw dropped. Sherlock tossed a mobile phone into John’s lap. The screen was cracked but John recognized it as Sherlock’s old phone. “Play the recording on that if you don’t believe me. But the truth is, he only needed one gun, one assassin because he knew, from the night at the pool, that the only person that I have loved in my entire life is you. And I never stopped."

John gaped at Sherlock, blinking and stuttering, trying to assimilate this new information and at having the words that he'd longed for finally said. He sucked in air, trying to orient himself in the kaleidoscope of feelings that Sherlock’s admission brought. But Sherlock wasn’t finished. He started again in a rush. 

"Since you've known I am alive, have you even once stopped in your righteous anger to think what it meant for me to give everything up--my work, my reputation, my flat, my comfortable life--so that you could enjoy yours? I went underground, did things that I’m not proud of, in order to protect you. I suffered for three long years, away from everything I've ever known. I am not saying you did not also suffer. I would never say that. But, you refuse to even acknowledge my suffering. As though this was all a lark. Far from it, John."

"Sherlock, surely you know that I care about you too." John finally managed, still struggling to make sense of what Sherlock was saying.

"Yet, you're about to marry another." Sherlock said and John finally twigged. Finally got it. So, that was why Sherlock had stayed away these past few weeks—Mary. His eyes widened and his heart thumped against the wall of his chest. He felt as if he were standing on a wide ledge, about to tumble into unknown territory, a line that they never crossed before Sherlock’s jump. 

"You rejected me that first night. You're married to your work, remember?"

"The work I left behind for you?" 

"You... that's..." John stammered as Sherlock slid off the table and advanced on him. He fisted his hands and for an instant, John thought he’d throw a punch. A small part of John would welcome it, would welcome the chance to take out their rage on each other with fists and blows. Instead, he slammed his fists into the wall behind John’s head and leaned down until he was mere inches from John. He’d forgotten what it was like to have his personal space invaded by Sherlock, his warmth so tantalizingly near. Involuntarily, John’s gaze flicked down to Sherlock’s lush mouth and then back up to meet his eyes. John fisted his hands in Sherlock’s jacket, whether to push him away or pull him closer, John couldn’t say. He lifted his chin, challenging Sherlock to go on. 

"Eloquent as always, Doctor Watson." Sherlock sneered. "I'm bad at this sentiment thing but I've had a lot of time to think, being alone, these last three years. I think I've got this right. I did reject you that first night. But sometime between that night and my swan dive, as you call it, I fell rather desperately in love with you. And you never saw it.” John started at the raw pain in Sherlock’s eyes and shook his head. “But, here's the question, the one that I can't deduce. Do you feel it too?"

Sherlock’s eyes met his and John ached to sink into him. To grab him and kiss him the way he’d longed for so many times, over so many cases. The way he’d never had the courage to try, never had the courage to breach that invisible wall between them, contenting himself with friendship and nothing more. Sherlock’s all too knowing, all too seeing gaze, traveled down John’s neck to the pulse point that leapt there. He began to smile and John knew he’d just lost another unwinnable battle of wits with Sherlock. Angry, he shoved him away, into the exam table. Sherlock gripped the table for balance.

"I did." John burst out. "Before you leapt to your death in front of me, yes, I did. I was half in love with you before we even met again on Baker Street. I knew I was a goner forever by the end of that first night. And you rejected me. But, it was okay, we could have the work, the friendship, and I could handle it, make it enough. But, then you died, Sherlock. You died right in front of me. I grieved you. I thought I'd die too with missing you. And Greg and Mycroft were the only ones who kept me from taking a swan dive right after you. We fought like hell to clear your name. And now, just when I have my feet under me and I'm about to marry a wonderful woman, you swoop back in here and just expect things to be as they were." John grabbed at his own hair and yanked. "You're giving me whiplash, Sherlock."

“I have never regretted anything in my life as much as I did that first night at Angelo’s. Would that I could do it all over again.” Sherlock burst out. 

“Does that mean your answer would be different now?” John whispered. Some part of his conscience cringed at the thought of Mary, who he loved, who he would marry, but he pushed it away, needing to know the answer, to hear Sherlock admit it.

“Does it matter?” Sherlock shrugged and John sighed. “All of that is secondary to me.” Sherlock said, hanging his head down, his fringe flopping over his aquamarine eyes. “I just want things to be as they were—us living in Baker Street, the work. And I can’t. There is this one last puzzle piece to put in.”

“Sherlock, listen to me. You died. I grieved you. Life went on. I don’t know if I can ever go back to the way it was before. I’m sorry.” John shrugged, his chest feeling hollow and aching, staring at his friend, the man who could have been his lover, who probably was the love of his life. He shut his eyes, hating how disloyal he was being to Mary. Mary, who had probably saved his life. 

“Goodbye, John.” Sherlock grabbed his captain’s hat and swept imperiously from the clinic, leaving a devastated John behind him.


	6. Chapter 6

By mid-June, John could no longer resist the siren call of the mobile Sherlock left him. Late one night, he locked himself in the tiny bathroom of the flat he shared with Mary and plugged in his headphones. Seated on the cold, cramped bathroom floor, surrounded by dozens of Mary’s bridal magazines, John listened to his friend bargain with a madman and lose. 

He listened to the recording again, and again, and again. 

And finally, near dawn, he broke down and wept, sobbing for all they had lost, all that Moriarty destroyed. 

The next morning, John called in sick to the clinic and began scouring the streets for his friend. The homeless network belonged to Sherlock and they were disinclined to help John. He appeared to be a respectable, middle aged doctor, as that was what he indeed was, and they treated him with mistrust. Finally, on the 15th of June, just before dawn, John woke with a start. The anniversary of the fall that started—or ended—it all. Without analyzing it, as though he had a long standing appointment, he rose quickly and made his way to St. Barts. Just as dawn crested, he stood on the street corner next to the hospital, staring down at the patch of pavement, imagining he could still see his best friend’s crimson blood running into the gutter. He covered his face with his hands and when he lowered them, turned to see his friend leaning against the red telephone booth.

In the months since his return, Sherlock gained back all the weight he’d lost, so he no longer looked like an emaciated, hunted greyhound. His natural curls were slowly overtaking the buzz cut he’d sported when he first got home but they were not yet the riotous nimbus they’d once been. Sherlock also wasn’t dressed in the deeply tailored suits and tight button downs he’d once worn. Now, he wore jeans and an ancient grey Mickey Mouse t-shirt, under a forest colored hoodie. He appeared far younger, like a university student. 

Their eyes met and John felt the swoop of deja vu in his stomach. It had all started here, in the labs, with that first deduction “Afghanistan or Iraq?” and, then, ended here so traumatically. Unbidden, a line of poetry from one of the wedding readings Mary kept talking about flittered through his mind: “Whatever souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” He smiled at Sherlock, his first real smile in ages, and Sherlock’s shoulders dropped with relief as he smiled back. John walked closer to him. Had they not been British, they might even have hugged. 

“Breakfast?” Sherlock said. John nodded and they walked around the corner to a diner John remembered from his medical school days. 

“Just coffee for me, thanks.” Sherlock said to the waitress. John felt celebratory, as though all the anger, guilt, hurt, had evaporated. He felt lighter, clearer, than he ever had. He ordered the full English.

“Sherlock, I listened to the recording on the phone.” John began. Sherlock played with the silverware, the sugar packets, the salt and pepper. John reached over the table and placed his hand on his to still the perpetual motion. Sherlock stopped and glanced up at him. “Sherlock, I’m so sorry. I should have known you would have a good reason.”

Sherlock sighed and nodded, his eyes fixed on John’s hand over his. A heartbeat passed and then another. Sherlock shifted his hand out from under John’s and squared his shoulders.“John, can we just put all of it behind us? Focus on the case?”

“Tell me what you’ve learned.”

“Nothing. That’s just it. Not a damn thing.” Sherlock raked his hands through his hair in frustration. 

“Talk it through with me.” The two friends talked for over an hour, Sherlock filling John in on all he’d done while away. 

“So, this Moran was Moriarty’s second in command…”

“Yes, I believe so. But no one has seen him. Not a whisper. Sometimes, I wonder if he’s not a ghost.” Sherlock smiled.

“Thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.” John smiled back, joy filling his chest, like a balloon about to burst. A tiny part of John mistrusted this much happiness, certain that somewhere another cosmic shoe was about to drop.

“Turn of phrase.” Sherlock laughed. John’s phone beeped and he pulled it out of his pocket to toss on the table. Sherlock glanced down at it and paled. Sherlock looked up at him, inscrutable, and then took the smartphone out of his hand. 

“Is this your Mary?” Sherlock said, an oddly flat tone to his voice.

“Yeah. Those are our engagement photos.” John didn’t know what to say given the emotional confessions last time they’d met. Abruptly, he came back to earth with a thud. Sherlock dropped the phone to the table and stood.

“Sherlock?”

Without a word, he tossed some cash on the table, turned and left the restaurant, leaving a bewildered John Watson in his wake.


	7. Chapter 7

After a short shift at the clinic, John walked home in the gloaming to his flat, his thoughts on his breakfast with Sherlock that morning. As he’d done all day, he attempted to deduce the reasons behind Sherlock’s abrupt departure. Sherlock left just after seeing the pictures of Mary and John. Before that, they’d been getting on so well—just like old times. Perhaps Sherlock—after the emotional confessions of their prior meeting—just could not accept Mary’s presence in John’s life. Could his departure be due to jealousy? And if so, what did that mean for John? For their friendship? For their future?

Distracted, his thoughts spinning, he unlocked the door. As the door swung open, some leftover sixth sense from Afghanistan made him peek inside. Across the room, Mary cowered in a corner, terror distorting her pretty features. He flung the door wide trying to knock into the unseen attacker and, taking a deep breath, stepped inside.

“Nice try, John.” Sherlock stood in their tiny galley kitchen, John’s service revolver trained on Mary. 

"Christ, what are you doing, Sherlock?" John moaned as he made his way across the room to Mary's side.

“No, John, don’t! Listen to me, please!” Sherlock said, flinging out his arm to stop him, but John ignored him. 

Mary wept into her hands, shaking in fear. John knelt next to her, shielding her body from Sherlock’s view. She trembled with the threat of the madman across from her.  He wrapped his arms around her, murmuring words of comfort, and helped her to her feet. At first, he didn't understand the cold kiss of the gun pressed against his temple. Sherlock hadn’t moved from the kitchen, still holding the gun on them but his eyes only on Mary. John looked at her, but she just smiled at Sherlock, a feral expression on her face.

"Mary?" John breathed. She ignored him and his gaze swung back to Sherlock, who stood, shoulder's slumped, defeated, lowering the gun.

"It's Mrs. Moriarty, John." She purred. John jerked, twisting in her arms to stare at her like she was a cobra.

"That's why I couldn't find the last link." Sherlock groaned in frustration while John just stared, completely at a loss for words. 

"They sent me to get close to him. It wasn't hard. He was still grieving for you and just wanted a comforting, boring woman. So, I became that woman. So many nights laying beside you, John, I thought I could kill you in your sleep. How easy it would be. But, I knew, that if I waited, I'd eventually get a bigger prize. And here you are, Mr. Holmes.” 

“What?” John managed in a whoosh.

“Were you really married to him?” Sherlock asked. 

“Indeed I was. Moran is my maiden name.”

“Your name is Mary Thompson.” John protested.

Sherlock shook his head and Mary rolled her eyes. “You recognized her from the picture?” John asked Sherlock and he nodded. 

“So, here’s the thing, Mr. Holmes. You join me and help me rebuild the web you’ve spent years destroying or you get to watch your little sidekick here die before you do.” 

“I’m not his sidekick…” John protested.

“Friend. Lover. Whatever. I don’t care. Do you know how many nights you called for him in your sleep?” John flushed but focused on the gun she kept on him, seeking his opportunity. “You can even work together again. I know how much you like that.” 

“What makes you think you can keep us in line?” Sherlock taunted her. 

“Well, once I get you to turn that big brain of yours to crime, I’ll have enough evidence on you to sink your big brother too. And your little DI friend. It’s like getting married to the mob. No way out, Sherlock. I can call you Sherlock, can’t I?”

“No.” Sherlock answered coolly and lifted the gun again. Mary’s finger twitched on the trigger and John made his move, He stomped on her instep and ducked at the same time. Her shot took out a hideous teapot they’d received for an engagement gift and John grabbed for the gun. They struggled together and dimly, he heard Sherlock shout, “John, Vatican Cameos!’ but he ignored him because Mary was his to deal with. With her free hand, she squeezed his injured shoulder hard and pain rocketed through him. She pulled the gun up and he managed to deflect it just as she fired again. He twisted her hand back as she fired the gun a third time. Then she fell backwards as a blood rose bloomed across her chest. John staggered back and dropped to his knees, only now feeling the pain of the gunshot in his upper arm.

Sherlock caught him and helped lower him to the floor, shock cartwheeling through him, his shoulder an agony of fire. Through his tunneling vision, he saw Sherlock rip off his Mickey Mouse t-shirt and press it against John’s shoulder. When he pulled it away, it was stained maroon with blood. His blood.

“I’ve been shot.” John managed before shock took over and he lapsed into unconciousness.


	8. Chapter 8

Early on the morning of Mary’s funeral in Brighton, where her family was from, John sat in the beach pavilion, staring out at the sea. He found the endlessly undulating waves comforting and hoped they could help him put his thoughts in some semblance of order. 

Thankfully, his gunshot wound turned out to be a fairly superficial shoulder scrape, requiring only an overnight stay in hospital with Sherlock hovering at his bedside. Several hours in, Mycroft arrived, trailed by Lestrade. Somehow—and John would never be very clear on the details—Mycroft helped them cover up real reasons behind Mary’s death. So, now, as part of Mycroft’s clever ruse, John had to eulogize a woman that he’d killed, though only a select few knew that key detail. Maybe it was just his lot in life to eulogize people that he thought he loved. He really had no idea what to say. 

As he tried to think of something to say, Sherlock kept popping into his thoughts along with their complex, unclassifiable relationship. They really hadn’t had a chance to resolve whatever this was between then. John tried to pin down for himself what he wanted and all he could think of was a memory from Afghanistan. Once, as they were eradicating poppies, a 10 day haboob blew through. After the endless shifting, swirling sand settled, nothing in its path was ever the same. The sand had either worn down or coated everything in its path, changing things to suit itself. John stood no chance against the tempest that was Sherlock Holmes.

And what was more, he didn't want to. 

He glanced to one side to see Sherlock making his way down the beach toward him. Sherlock looked very out place among the early sunbathers. It wasn't just his attire--dark suit pants and dark tight shirt, his jacket tucked over his arm. Rather, the bewildered look on his face gave him away. John imagined that an alien would peer around in bafflement much the same way. He didn’t imagine Sherlock enjoyed the beach much. He joined John on the bench and stared out at the sea for a bit in silence, watching the way the sunlight twinkled on the water.

“I’m sitting here with my former flatmate who is now back from the dead. Today, we are here burying the woman that was going to be my wife.” John said, shaking his head and staring blankly at the rippling water.

“Er..yes.” Sherlock said cautiously.

“Here’s the thing though. I was far more upset at your funeral than I am at hers.” 

“Oh, well, um…I’m sure…that is. You’d witnessed me jump and all…”

“I shot her.” 

“Yes.”

“You’d think I’d feel bad about that. But I guess she wasn’t a very nice woman.” Sherlock laughed and then looked at John wide-eyed, as though he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to laugh or whether it would be a bit not good. John smiled at him, feeling his face crinkle into his first real smile since before Sherlock jumped from St. Barts. 

"That first night at Baker Street, how did you know about my danger thing?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "You could have stayed here, in England, after becoming a doctor. Take a comfortable job, a safe practice. Yet, you didn't. You hightailed it off to Afghanistan. It was a guess, but a good one."

"And why me?"

"Why you what?" 

"You could have picked anyone. There are a million people who could have been your sidekick."

"You're not my sidekick. You're my friend. I told you once, I only have one.” John nodded. Sherlock paused and then pressed on. “Isn’t that what you want? To be friends?”

"No." Sherlock reared back as if struck, staring at John. "I had a lot of time to think in these past three years too. And I always regretted not doing this." John leaned over and pressed a feather-light kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth, just where his lips crooked up when he truly started to smile. Sherlock inhaled sharply and wrapped his arms around him before kissing him back like he was starving. John’s worries over the strangeness of his first kiss with a man faded with the intensity. They broke apart, staring into each other’s eyes for a long, endless moment.

“Breakfast?” Sherlock said, with that grin that made John’s heart flip. He nodded. They twined hands and strode up the beach, John contentedly listening to Sherlock’s deductions about the beach-goers. 

Perhaps it didn’t matter that there was no word for their relationship. Perhaps it was enough that it simply, eternally, forever, was theirs.


	9. Epilogue

One year later...

After settling Lestrade in with a large cup of coffee, paracetemol, and an ice pack, John wandered into the back garden of the Holmes Surrey home. The Holmes boys referred to it as a cottage and a garden but really it was more like a palace in a parkland. A tulle shrouded bower sat amoung the blooming roses in the formal rose garden and nearby a string quartet tuned up. The mid-June sky was a perfect cerulean with only the fluffiest of clouds to mar it. Perfect day for a wedding.

“So, is he all set for the big moment?” John joined Sherlock as he walked into the back garden and smiled as he glared at the trees festooned with tulle and the fairy lights just beginning to wink on. 

“I suppose. Mycroft claims never to be nervous. I left him and Mummy sipping tea.” Sherlock shrugged. John could never get over how sublimely gorgeous Sherlock was in white tie. All that Edwardian pallor, unruly curls, and otherworldly eyes—he looked like he just stepped out of a fashion shoot and yet was standing next to a short, middle-aged former army doctor with a noticeable paunch. How did he get so lucky?

“Lestrade is shaking in his shoes.” John said. “You’d think he’d be less nervous, having done this once before. But, it’s just stage fright with everyone here. I was wondering, do you mind that we didn’t have a big do?”

“God no, Mummy would have been a nightmare.” Sherlock shook his head. “Our quiet appointment at the registry office was just fine for me. But, in talking to Mycroft about their holiday to Italy, it did occur to me that we never went on a honeymoon.

“I didn’t think you went on holiday. With the work and all. In fact, I actually cannot imagine you on holiday, lying about with all the sunbathers.”

“Covered in oil?” Sherlock smirked.

John’s eyes glazed over as he imagined that and he smiled. “Well, that I might be able to imagine.”

Sherlock bent and kissed his cheek, whispering “Maybe later.” Before straightening. “What do people do on holiday?”

“I dunno.” John was still stuck on the mental image of Sherlock covered in oil.

“You went on holiday with that dreadfully boring Sarah. What did you do?” Impatience crept into Sherlock’s voice. John shook himself out of his daydream. 

“New Zealand was quite nice. We went to the shore a few times, hiked a bit, looked at waterfalls, took lots of snapshots.” At Sherlock’s crinkled nose, John laughed again. “It doesn’t really sound your speed, does it? Rather a noticeable absence of crime scenes and what not.”

“You wound me, John. I am not so one-dimensional as all that.”

“Well, where would you like to go on holiday? I could take you to Disney World.” John laughed again at the incredulous horror on Sherlock’s face.

“Mycroft and Lestrade are off to Tuscany. I’ve always wanted to see the lavender fields there. I understand the bees there make an amazing lavender infused honey.”

“Bees?” John blinked. Sherlock never ceased to surprise him.

“Bees are fascinating, John! I believe when I retire, I will found an apiary.”

“You as a beekeeper?”

“You can still be my assistant.”

“You mean I can get all the stings while you stand by observing for science.”

“Certainly not. You can collect the honey too.” At that, they both dissolved into giggles just as the wedding coordinator came by to shoo them into their appointed positions. 

“We can’t giggle. It’s a wedding.” John hissed.

“You started it! Don’t blame me!” Sherlock laughed back as they strode down the aisle to take their places near the bower.


End file.
